I tell my love to wreck it all
by saltzatore
Summary: There's a war between witches and hybrids, and people are caught between the lines. - AU set in the future. - Dalaric.
1. Chapter 1

Many, MANY thanks and hugs and kisses to my beta ghostfour, I missed you **so** fucking much, hun, you have NO idea. So, so glad to have you back!

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><p><strong>I see hell in your eyes<strong>

"Come one, get up, we're like sitting ducks out here." Alaric's voice was breathless, scratchy, still hoarse from under-use.

Damon didn't move, didn't appear to have heard him at all. He didn't look good, like death warmed over, _repeatedly_, covered in blood from head to toe, a big, gaping wound that was refusing to close situated on his lower right side. Alaric had no idea where it had come from, but he figured it must have been one of the hybrids. And that was bad.

"Damon?" He shook the vampire slightly, eliciting a low grunt of protest and a flicker of his lids. "Damon, come on, wake up."

"We get 'em?" Damon's voice was nothing like his normal tone, it was weak, barely there, more like a tired sigh.

"No, not all of them– Damon, we have to move, we have to get out, they're closing in–"

Something in his voice must have finally got through to the vampire, as Damon's eyes opened and he blinked up at Alaric, squinting.

"You look like shit..."

Alaric rolled his eyes. "Right, back at you." He sat up, pulling the vampire upright by his shoulders, ignoring the pained groan that left Damon's lips at the movement. "Up you go."

It was at times like this where he wished for vampire strength to be able to help better, to be able to do something that actually made a difference in a fight for once. All he could do, right now, was to try and get Damon to his feet– and that proved to be rather difficult since Damon didn't seem to be in any condition to stand, let alone walk, leaving Alaric no choice but to pull him over his shoulders in some sort of a fireman's carry. Damon grunted when the position put pressure on his injured side, but other than that, there was nothing, no sound of protest.

The silence scared him– Damon was never silent when there was another person around to hear him, even if it was just his own ears, but Alaric forced himself to push that feeling down, to concentrate on the task at hand. He looked up, scanning the surroundings. The forest around them was quiet– but that didn't mean anything, once the pack caught their scent again they would be on their trail, again, moving faster than any human could run, even at top speed. Not that he would be able to run with Damon's weight across his shoulders.

"Little help here?" he gasped, not really expecting an answer, and not really getting one.

He had no idea where to go, he hadn't been paying attention to the direction they'd been headed before they had been spotted, and after that the only thought on his mind had been to get away from them as fast as possible. And then they had been attacked but he couldn't remember from which side and the fucking forest was looking the same, no matter where he turned–

"They're... coming..." Damon's soft voice pulled him out of the panic attack and he flinched, turning his head, trying to see more of Damon than just a blob of dark hair.

"Which direction?"

"I don't know... can smell them... Let me down."

If anything, Damon sounded even weaker than before. Alaric shook his head. "You're in no condition to walk."

There was a soft sigh, then the body around his shoulders tensed. Damon's voice sounded stronger. A little.

"Leave me, Ric. Get out and get help."

Riiight.

"Shut up." This was not what he needed, he needed a plan– a direction– _anything_–

"I mean it, put me down and leave, Ric, this is not the time to play the hero–"

"Look who's talking," Alaric ground out between clenched teeth. "'m not leaving you behind, so shut up."

He started walking then, most of all to prove his point, but also to do at least something useful. He still had no idea where he was supposed to go, but moving seemed better than just hanging out near the corpse of the hybrid until his relatives showed up, looking for a little pay-back.

Damon was silent as the walk got a little rougher, and Alaric figured he must have blacked out or something. At this point, he didn't even mind, he didn't have the energy to spare to fight with the stubborn undead ass and–

"Last chance, Ric, put me down and leave."

Alaric rolled his eyes, would have shaken his head if that wouldn't just make his headache worse. "Forget it."

He took another step– and suddenly pain lanced through his side, tearing a shout from his throat as his legs gave in and he crumpled to the ground. The pain was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He struggled to get out from beneath Damon. The vampire was moving slowly, rolling to the side, away from him. Alaric touched a hand to his side and it came away bloody. He stared at it, incredulous.

"You bit me."

Damon lifted his head, blinking at him dizzily. "You wouldn't listen."

"You _bit_ me."

Damon rolled onto his back, looking up into the dark sky. "You'll survive," he groaned and fought to sit up, swaying slightly as he struggled to focus on Alaric.

For a moment they just sat there, Damon obviously struggling to overcome whatever was making him look that disorientated as Alaric tried to rationalize the fact that he'd just been bitten by the very man he was trying to save. Not that it was the first time that Alaric had felt those teeth, but usually they were somewhere far less cold, and doing much more interesting things. Such an…intimacy didn't belong out here while they were running form a pack of hybrids.

Alaric pressed against his bleeding side, wondering if that was the first time he ever felt those teeth as the weapons they were created to be.

It was Damon who spoke first. "Go, Ric."

And he was still trying that, stubborn mule. Alaric rolled his eyes, ignoring how that movement triggered some deep, uncomfortable ache behind his left eye. He squared his shoulders.

"No." It was all he said, all he would say to this topic. He fixed Damon with a determined look. He wouldn't back down, not this time, not about this.

Damon studied him, then shook his head and leaned back against a tree, pressing his shirt against his still bleeding side. "This is suicide, Ric, you don't need to. I'm already dea–"

"Godamnit, _stop_, Damon. Shut the fuck up, I won't leave you, okay?" He hadn't meant to shout and it didn't really do anything good for his headache, but it had the desired effect; Damon stopped talking and fell silent.

For about ten seconds.

"I could make you."

Alaric flinched, Damon was right: Alaric had stopped taking vervain ages ago and the hybrids had taken away his talisman when they'd thrown them into that stinking cell six– seven? days ago. Damon could make him do pretty much anything he wanted right now.

"But you won't."

They stared at each other, neither looking away, for what felt like an eternity.

"You're an idiot," Damon finally all but growled and Alaric grinned darkly.

"Learned from the best."

He let his eyes wander across his lover's body and didn't like the way Damon was slumped against the tree, how pale and sick he looked. Alaric himself probably didn't look any better, but, apart from that really nasty blow to the head during their escape, he was miraculously unharmed. A little dizzy and not too eager to move any time soon, but definitely better off than Damon. That was definitely a first.

"We need to get out of here," he said, just to fill the hopeless silence that was starting to fall between them.

Damon shrugged. "After you," he said, waving at the trees around them. "I wasn't paying attention to where you were going–" He broke off and ran a hand through his dirty hair, looking around. "We're fucked."

Alaric had to agree, it didn't look good. Nobody knew where they were, the hybrid pack had dragged them off to a location that was heavily warded against magic. Bonnie wouldn't be able to find them, not even with one of her powerful locator spells. They had no idea what their friends had been told– maybe they even thought them dead and lost, the latest casualties of the war between Klaus's hybrids and the witches. At this point, neither side was winning, both of then still testing one another's strengths and weaknesses, pros and cons…and he and Damon would go down as just one more Vamp and Hunter, caught in the middle.

"Ric."

He blinked to clear his sight. "What?"

Damon looked serious, as if he didn't really want to say what was on his mind, but said it anyway because he was _Damon_ and would never keep his mouth shut. "You know there's always one way for you to get out of this."

Alaric didn't know what he was talking about, or maybe he simply was too tired to realize what that meant, and he frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Damon sighed, a sad sound, but he held Alaric's gaze. "I can still turn you. You'd be faster, stronger– you could get away."

Alaric shook his head. "I'd also be dead for hours, not to mention a vampire being hunted by a pack of hybrids." He grinned, without humor. "This is the first time it's actually a good thing to be just human..."

Damon rolled his eyes– and froze. Alaric was instantly alert, falling silent as Damon cocked his head to the side, listening. Alaric couldn't hear anything, yet, but, judging by the dark look on Damon's face he knew it wasn't good news. Damon's gaze snapped to him and he raised his hand, waving three fingers at him. Alaric barely managed to hold back a groan, they stood no chance against three hybrids, not in the condition they were in. For just one second, for the last time, they locked eyes– and Alaric could see hell in Damon's eyes. And he knew it was reflected in his own, hell for what was coming– and for what they were losing.

Nevertheless, both of them got to their feet and they stood, back to back, scanning the night for movement.

The hybrids were on them before they knew what was happening, there was growling, dark shapes moving too fast for the eye to track, Damon tensing against his back–

–and then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I changed the title of this fic from_ I see hell in your eyes_ to _I tell my love to wreck it all_, couldn't get that line out of my head.

Also, I'm taking some liberties with the effect of a hybrid-bite on a vampire, don't be surprised!

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><p>The wound was going to leave a scar.<p>

Damon pulled a grimace and leaned back against the wall. He looked down at his torn side, a tired frown on his face.

He was going to have a scar. Probably a nasty one. On his side.

He'd never had a scar before, his blood took care of every injury and healed it, completely. Always. Without leaving scars. Even the larger, more serious wounds, like being drenched in vervained water or burning his skin in the daylight when his ring failed to work. He never had a single _scratch_ from any of it.

But this one, the ugly, gaping wound, was going to scar. Badly.

He growled under his breath, wincing when it came out sounding like a breathless huff.

They had never found out why a vampire bitten by a hybrid didn't die. Bonnie had the theory that the wolf- and the vampire-blood inside a hybrid might be canceling each other out, weakening the effects of a bite. A hybrid-bite wasn't lethal— but incredibly annoying.

And it left scars. He was going to have a hideous reminder of their captivity for the rest of his un-life. And there was nothing he could do about it.

The pain was driving him crazy. It was coming in waves now, coursing through his body relentlessly. He was no stranger to pain, he'd suffered many different physical assaults throughout his existence; he'd been in agony from vervain-covered bullets lodged deeply in his back, shattered bones or witchy aneurisms. Each and every time there had been a moment when he had just wanted it to stop, when he would have done anything to just make it end— but then it had always been over. He'd gotten the bullet out, waited for his bones to knit or Judgy had come to her senses and released him.

This wound was different. It didn't heal, which meant the pain didn't stop. It got so bad he'd bitten his tongue four or five times already as he fought to keep from howling in agony. He wasn't very successful, more often than not, he'd lose the fight and couldn't hold back— and then it got worse. Trying to pull in enough air to scream caused his torn side to stretch and it was so much worse. Always worse. Like his side cramping up on him until his vision dimmed and he started to drift away. He didn't know how many times he had blacked out so far...

He'd been through something similar before. Back, when Tyler had bitten him. It should have killed him and he'd been in terrible pain for _hours_— but it had not been half as bad as this. Right now, he was feeling as weak as a human, he barely had enough strength to shift or sit up straight. Every movement pulled at his side which, in turn, sent spasms through his body that literally took his breath away. He was feeling miserable and weak, completely out of his game.

It didn't help that he knew he was facing a long road of recovery. The wound, and the agony, would get worse before he got better, he'd seen Stefan go through a bite like this a few years ago. It hadn't been pretty, the fever had gotten so high that Stefan had begun hallucinating almost constantly, talking to people long gone, begging them to forgive him. Damon had lost it when his brother had started calling out for Elena, he'd had to send Caroline in to deal with him until he'd begun to recover—

Damon groaned, forcing the memories back. He rolled his head to the side, his gaze falling on the quiet man next to him.

Speaking of recovery...

Alaric was lying on the mattress next to him, curled on his side, facing him. He looked terrible, his head was covered in blood from a surprisingly small gash on his temple, his face pale underneath it, the unhealthy color of old paper. He hadn't woken since they had been put back into the cell, and Damon was starting to worry.

The fight that had led to their re-capture was just a vague memory of blurs and shadows, and of too much movement close to him.

And of that noise, that terrible crunching of bones from behind him, followed by a choked, pained grunt. He'd turned in time to see Alaric drop like a stone, completely still, and, for the longest of moments, not even breathing. Damon had frozen on the spot, gaze locked on the crumpled form, convinced whatever had hit Alaric had killed him. Alaric was just human, after all, and without his ring, even a glancing blow from a hybrid could easily end his life. But then Alaric's chest had moved and Damon had been so fucking relieved he'd forgot about the fight and moved to get to him—

And that was when the hybrid had crashed into his side— and everything had gone black.

Now they were back in their cell. This time, they even had a guard in front of it.

Damon sighed softly and let his head fall back against the wall. They were screwed. He had no more plans up his sleeve, no idea how to get them out of there. Alaric didn't look like he was waking up soon and his head wound wouldn't stop bleeding. Damon could barely move without doubling over in pain, he sure as hell wasn't walking out of there under his own power.

Which brought him back to the question that had been bothering him ever since they had been captured in the first place: What the hell did the hybrids want with them? It wasn't just a random abduction, they had been after him and Alaric specifically, ambushing them on their way to the Boarding House. They'd been thrown into the cell and left there; no one ever talked to them. Except for a few not so frequent visits from different men who'd brought 'food' and water for Alaric, there had been no contact with their kidnappers. They'd been left to themselves for days. All they knew, the only information they had been able to glean form whispered conversations in the hall outside their cell, was that they had been taken by a pack of 'rouge' hybrids, wolves who had turned on their creator and split with Klaus during the fighting. It told them nothing about why they had been taken, or what the pack hoped to accomplish. And Damon couldn't see any way that their kidnapping would help the pack survive.

A particularly painful cramp tore him out of his thoughts and he groaned, moving slightly to find a comfortable position.

He was worried. Worried about his lover lying next to him, bleeding, on a stinking mattress in the basement of some place they hadn't even seen. Worried about what could have happened to the others while they were gone. Worried about what would happen once the pain became too severe for him to stay conscious— what would happen to Alaric when he lost what little control he had over the situation?

They needed a plan, an idea to get out of there, or at least let the others know where they were.

He reached out, placing a hand on Alaric's hip to be alerted as soon as Alaric started to move and closed his eyes, giving in to the exhaustion that was making his head swim. He'd just take a break for a few minutes...

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><p>It hurt.<p>

Sweet Jesus, but it fucking _hurt_.

Someone was driving a white, hot spear into his brainand he couldn't get it to _stop_. He was hot and cold at the same time, shivering helplessly from the mixed sensations. Even though his eyes were clenched shut, everything around him was spinning. And there were colors. Everywhere. Dancing, swaying, moving, movingmoving_moving—_

A sound rumbled through his ear, got caught in his aching brain. Then there were more sounds. Sounds that didn't make sense, sounds that were just there. With him. Next to him. Wherever he was. They pulled him from the darkness, dragging him closer to where he didn't want to be. Where the pain was.

The sound morphed into something else— a voice. It was close, worried, kind of...

Familiar.

He couldn't understand what it was saying. Maybe it wasn't even talking to him, he didn't know, didn't really care. He tried to move, tried to get a grip on something steady—

Whatever he'd had to drink the night before, it wasn't worth this.

He groaned softly, wincing when the sound reverberated through his brain. Other than his head, he felt warm. He was lying on something soft, almost comfortable. Something— smelly?

Someone was close to him.

"What—" He didn't get any further, his head decided he wasn't quite ready for speech yet and morphed what he had been trying to say into a low groan.

"Finally... took you long enough." The voice was close, low, laced with something he couldn't identify.

Something soft brushed against his head and he winced, tried to reach up and push it away. A hand caught his arm before he was even aware he was able to move it.

"You don't want to touch it."

"What..." he tried again, forcing his tired eyes open and squinting up at a blurry face. "Wha'hpnd?"

His voice held no power and his head pounded sharply in protest against the light invading his eyes, sending his mind, his focus, his _world,_ reeling.

"How are you feeling?"

The voice didn't hurt his ears as much as he thought it would and he felt himself relax slightly, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Peachy…" he mumbled softly, feeling his grasp on reality slip slightly as talking drained his strength right out of his bones.

"They got you real good. For a second I'd thought he'd taken your head off."

The strange undertone was back in the voice, but he was too tired to try and make sense of it. He settled for a non-committal grunt, which was pretty much the only thing he felt capable of doing. Something settled on his lower hip, squeezing softly, before the voice returned. "Get some rest."

He frowned, closed his eyes, tried to get his thoughts together to form a decent question— but he couldn't. As soon as he tried to get a grip on anything more complicated than "it hurts" or "light's too bright" the words would disappear, leaving him feeling lost and tired.

There was a long silence and he thought he had drifted off, when the voice sounded again.

"Your head's bleeding pretty badly... I'd give you the magical cure, but with the dog slobber all over me it'll probably kill you..."

The person next to him shifted slightly and the hand on his hip tightened a bit.

"Ric, I'm getting hungry, you're starting to smell..."

The tone suggested that it was a bad thing. He was about to say that whatever he was lying on was probably smelling even worse than him, but didn't. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing his eyes open as wide as he could, fighting to get his surroundings clear, to _see_ where he was. He was rewarded with the sight of something that resembled a... cellar, stone-walls all around, a door with a small window on one end, a single light bulb at the ceiling... and an old, moldy mattress on which he was lying.

He turned his head slightly and frowned when his line of sight was suddenly obscured by a dark blob. It turned out to be the blurry shape of someone sitting next to him, leaning against the wall, hunched over. All he could see clearly were eyes, ice-blue, fixed on his, watching him. The expression in them changed from worried to teasing when their eyes met.

"You look like shit."

He realized that was where the voice had come from. Something at the back of his head, that had nothing to do with the pain that was raging there, set off a shrill alarm and he winced. There was something he needed to say, something wasn't right— but he couldn't name it, couldn't put his finger on it. Something about everything didn't make any sense— and it scared him. He struggled to lift his head slightly, trying to get at least another view of the room, but a hand on his shoulder pushed him down effortlessly, pressing him into the mattress.

"You shouldn't move."

"What happened?" His voice sounded alien to him, all scratchy and unused and wrong.

The eyes narrowed and the face leaned in closer, studying him like a bug under a microscope. "One of the wolfbrothers bashed your head in, almost took it off your shoulders— Ric?"

He was getting agitated and he couldn't even say why, he felt his heartbeat accelerate, felt his body try to curl away from the body so close to him, felt the overwhelming need to put distance between them, to get the other out of his personal space. But he could barely move, merely succeeded in turning his head a little more in a move that sent the whole room spinning and gave a blood-red tinge to his view.

The voice changed, suddenly, switching from worried to commanding. "What the hell— Ric, _calm down—_"

And, just like that, he was calm, felt his body relaxed into the mattress as something dark and heavy descended over his thoughts, like a wave crashing against his mind and dragging him under, weighting his limbs, immobilizing him.

It was _terrifying_.

"Alaric?"

The eyes were back, inches from his own, staring down at him, too close to keep them in focus. He tried to pull back, to get away— but his body wouldn't respond.

"Get away from me," he whispered, panic stealing his voice.

The eyes narrowed again and a hand appeared at his chin, tilting his head to the side.

"What's wrong with you?"

He felt his breath hitch in his throat. It was the worst feeling, his body was poised to flight, to get away but he couldn't move, was held down by some invisible force that wouldn't let go of him, kept him down and on his back. Defenseless. Weak.

"Let go of me," he said, even though the only thing he could feel was a hand on his shoulder that was keeping him down.

And still he couldn't move.

"Alaric, look at me."

The quiet voice was trying to break through his panic, trying to get him to calm down.

It wasn't working.

God, everything hurt… his head was just… a pounding mass of pressure and pain. His skull felt… _broken_. His neck was… heavy and stiff. And the pounding was even in his eyes, causing them to ache every time he moved them, and he couldn't even put his head down that little bit that he _knew_ would ease some of the agony because of the hand holding his chin.

In desperation and not a little anger, he let his throbbing eyes meet those of the person holding his head.

He blinked at the worried, damn near _terrified_, piercing blue eyes.

And was confused.

"Who the hell are you?"


	3. Chapter 3

He would have preferred a bucket of cold water mixed with vervain aimed at his head. Without the water. He would have even taken it to his already burning side without so much as a word of protest.

It was like time had frozen, like reality wasn't moving anymore, wasn't happening anymore. He was caught in a half-turn to get some of the pressure of his throbbing side when Alaric's question took the world out from beneath his feet. Alaric was trying to move, to get up, but still looking at him, that lost, questioning expression that was worse than any grimace of pain he could have had.

_Who the hell are you?_

It was a joke. Had to be. The worst joke at the worst time– and he'd almost fallen for it. Alaric was trying to screw with him, trying to make him laugh. Ric had probably picked up on how miserable he was feeling because Damon had a very good idea how bad he looked. Alaric was trying to lighten the mood. His timing sucked, but Damon could deal with that, Ric's timing always sucked. And Damon knew he should respond like he always did: force a grin onto his lips and wink at him, tease him about his non-existent sense of humor and punch him in the shoulder. Or, okay, maybe not _punch_ him, not with most of Alaric's blood still on the outside of him, but he could still roll his eyes at him.

He could…if this were a joke.

It was a joke. Had to be.

Except that it wasn't.

There was no tell-tale twinkle in Alaric's eyes, no smug grin starting to twist his lips. He didn't sit up and make fun of his lover's shocked face. In fact, Alaric made no indication that he was even aware of how that question made Damon's heart clench painfully in his chest.

Alaric's expression remained unchanged form the moment he'd woken up. All there was, was a confused expression, and dazed eyes searching Damon's for an answer.

An answer Damon would have to provide.

Reality caught up with him and Damon opened his mouth to answer. "I'm your– friend," he heard himself say.

If Alaric had noticed his hesitation, he didn't show it, by now he had almost succeeded in getting his head a few inches off the mattress and was trying to look around. Damon's gaze caught on the large stain of partly dried blood beneath Alaric's head and he felt his stomach turn, nausea starting to creep up his throat. Alaric had lost a lot of blood. Damon knew that head wounds tended to bleed a lot, almost always making them look worse than they really were, but this was definitely too much. Alaric's head seemed to agree with that diagnosis, and before Damon could do or say anything, Alaric gave a weak groan and sagged back onto the mattress, his eyes falling closed.

"Oh god..."

Alaric reached out blindly, obviously searching for something to hold on to, to help him stop his world from spinning. Damon caught his arm, noting with a worried frown how clammy and cold Alaric's skin felt.

"They used your head for a punching bag my – my friend. You shouldn't move that much."

Damon leaned back against the wall, not taking his eyes off Alaric's pale face and not letting go of the arm, as he tried to figure out what to do now. Blood-loss would soon be an issue– for both of them. He had no way of knowing or even guessing how much Alaric had lost so far. He was way too pale, and now that Damon was looking for it, he could see a fine shiver starting to go through Alaric's tense frame. Under Damon's fingers, Alaric's pulse beat, too fast and too weak. Damon squeezed the arm lightly, trying to get Alaric's attention to focus.

"Ric, how bad is it?"

It wasn't the first time Alaric was injured. It wasn't the first time Damon had been forced to watch over him while he was weak and miserable and bleeding, loosing too much of the precious fluid for his body to cope with. It wasn't the first time there was a wound, and pain, and Damon's own feeling of helplessness which came super-sized with both.

But it was the first time that Damon couldn't do anything about it. He didn't know what his contaminated blood would do to a human. He didn't know if whatever was turning his own blood against him, making him sick, making him helpless, would do the same thing to Alaric. And he couldn't risk it– _wouldn't_ risk it as long as Alaric wasn't dying. Without Alaric's magic ring, without Damon's blood as a last minute cure against everything, it suddenly occurred to him that Alaric was mortal. That there was a chance that he would lose him. That a single blow to the head, from a hybrid who was at least as strong as Damon himself, was enough to kill Alaric.

A low groan pulled him out of his thoughts. Alaric was trying to move again, rolling his head on the mattress, but he was too dizzy. He ended up rolling onto his back, the motion causing him to groan softly.

"You need to calm down."

Alaric squinted at him. "What happened?" His voice was no more than a croak and Damon winced in sympathy. He opened his mouth to tell Ric about the hybrid-attack– but stopped. If Alaric had no idea who he was, he probably didn't know anything about vampires either.

"What do you remember?" he asked instead, watching Alaric closely.

Alaric's gaze unfocused as he tried to concentrate, but he didn't seem to be very successful, after a long moment his eyes closed.

"I feel like I was hit... by a train..." he mumbled softly. Damon's stomach turned at the weak quality of his voice. He didn't sound like himself at all, and Damon had heard him hurt before.

"That's about it... You got into... a fight. Got hit on the head." One of Alaric's eyes opened and he blinked up at him.

"Who are you?" Alaric asked, again. Damon winced, couldn't quite fight back the slight panic that came with the question.

"I'm your friend, we got into that fight together."

Alaric was silent for a moment, then frowned. "Why would I– where are we?" He tried to lift his head again. "Is this a holding-cell? Were we arrested?"

Damon had no idea how much of the room Alaric could see and for him, it might as well look like a police cell. He grinned, couldn't hold back a joke. ""Well, there are times when we could get arrested for indecent exposure–""

Alaric blinked– and stared. "What?" For just a second, he sounded like himself again, horrified and shocked, not sure if Damon was making fun of him or not– but then his eyebrows knitted together into a frown. "I don't remember you."

Damon fought to hold back a grimace. "You got hit on the head, pretty badly, I'm sure it will come back to you."

_Because I need you back, Ric._ He didn't say that out loud, but it was true; he needed Alaric strong and ready to fight, to do anything to get them both out of there. Or survive until they could be saved. Most of all he needed him strong, because he could feel himself beginning to weaken, could feel a… fuzziness to his thoughts and perceptions, making reality go blurry around the edges; he could feel his bones getting too heavy to move.

Alaric was watching him and brought a hand up, probing his head cautiously. He hissed when his fingers hit a sore spot and closed his eyes. "What happened?" he asked, again.

Damon rolled his eyes, ready to make a sarcastic remark about Alaric beginning to sound like a broken record– but then he remembered that concussions often came with short time memory loss, you could literally tell a person the same thing over and over again and they'd forget it the moment they heard it.

"There was a fight–" he started, but Alaric held up his hand, interrupting him.

"What kind of fight?" he asked and opened his eyes again, looking up at him curiously.

_Hybrids, you know, vampire-werewolves_– It was on the tip of his tongue, but Damon held it back.

"There was a... _disagreement_ with another group and we... drew the short straw–"

His side cramped up on him so suddenly that he had to break off and he sucked in a breath, clenching his teeth around a groan.

Alaric's brow furrowed and he seemed a little more alert. "Are you hurt?"

Alaric started to move, slowly, trying to get his head off the mattress. Damon wanted to tell him to keep still, but couldn't, the pain racing through his side was too severe to get a word out. He felt his face twist into a snarl and couldn't hold back a curse when it got stronger, stealing his breath. For a second, the world disappeared around him and he saw stars, could feel himself begin to drift and he was tempted, so _fucking_ tempted, to just give in and get away from it–

But then the pain receded and he collapsed against the wall, panting, curling around the throbbing wound.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned weakly and opened his burning eyes to find Alaric looking back at him.

"What happened to you?" Alaric sounded alarmed, and for a second, for just a tiny moment, Damon missed the worry that should be there in his eyes, in his voice. He shook his head, the wound was making him sentimental. He didn't need that. He schooled his features into a cocky, though tired grin.

"I stopped a cl– a knife with my side, couldn't get out of the way fast enough," he said.

Alaric's eyes widened slightly and he began to move again, sitting up slowly, very slowly, while holding his head with one hand as if he was afraid it might fall off. Once he was upright he began to list to the side and reached out for something to brace himself.

"You should lay down, you probably have a concussion," Damon said and Alaric gave a soft grunt.

"No, you're wrong, I most definitely have a concussion," he answered, reaching out again for something to steady himself. Damon didn't pull back when Alaric's hand came to rest on his knee as the other man leaned heavily on him, fighting against the obvious dizziness. "Oh god, stop turning..."

Damon watched him without saying a word, too aware of how dire the situation was, how weak and defenseless they were at the moment. If anything happened right now, they'd be in trouble. Well, in even more trouble than they were now. He fought hard not to let his worry show on his face, but he needn't have worried. Alaric wasn't looking at him, he had his eyes squeezed shut and was rubbing his not-injured temple, his whole body tight with pain. For just a second, Damon longed to reach out and squeeze his shoulder slightly, offer at least some sort of comfort— but he didn't.

And that's when it suddenly occurred to Damon that things were about to get worse: If Alaric didn't know about him, didn't remember him, remember _them_, then he didn't know about vampires either. And that was a problem. If Damon snapped, if he lost control over himself, if he tried to bite Alaric to get blood, to _heal_. A stab of fear tore through him and he tensed, pushing the pain in and his throbbing side aside. He had to think of something, he had to do something to make sure Alaric was safe. He had no idea what he would... what he _could_ do in his current condition. He had never been this injured before, never suffered so much pain without having a way to let some of it out, to fight against it. He had never been in a situation like this. Worst of all, he had never been afraid for Alaric's safety. There had been tight spots before, a need for blood so unbearable he couldn't hold back– but Alaric had fought back, had driven a stake into his side to stop him and get away from him. As close as they were, as comfortable as Alaric was with him– he never forgot who– _what_ – Damon was. Damon had come to rely on that fact; he had come to rely on Alaric's hunter's instincts and now, with them gone–

He blinked to find Alaric staring at him worriedly, his gaze wandering to Damon's injured side, and then back to his face.

"How bad is it?"

"I've been... better," Damon admitted after a moment.

Alaric looked like he was about to lean forward and see the wound for himself– and the Alaric Damon knew would have done just that, he would have pried his fingers off of it and then searched the room for something to dress the wound with– but he didn't. Instead, Alaric scanned the room again, his gaze coming to rest on the door at the far end of the cell.

"Where are we?"

"It's... complicated."

Alaric's eyes crawled back to Damon and there was a hint of alarm in them. And something else, something that Damon didn't like directed at him. "What is this?" Alaric asked and his voice suddenly took on a slightly cautious, pissed tone. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

Damon saw right through it, Alaric was starting to get scared. Damon couldn't blame him, especially not when what he was about to say was going to make it worse.

"This is not a police station, we were not arrested, we... we were kidnapped."

"Kidnapped." Alaric stared at him, incredulous. "You're kidding. Why would anyone kidnap me– us? I don't even know you!"

It wasn't getting easier hearing that over and over again, and Damon tensed, jaw clenching around a comeback. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Alaric didn't answer right away. When the words came, they were sluggish, like he was prying the memories out of sticky clay. "I came back home from work and sat down to do… work on... something... and..." Alaric stopped and frowned, eyes turning suspicious. "I wasn't in a bar or anything, I was at home– how could I get into a fight at home?"

Damon couldn't fight a grin. _You'd be surprised how often that happens to us._ He was about to say something, when Alaric suddenly went rigid and looked up, staring at him with wide eyes.

"_Isobel!_ My wife– if she finds out I'm– I'm gone– I'm _kidnapped_–" He broke off– and Damon felt the air leaving his lungs in a shocked gasp.

This was bad. This was worse than bad.

Not only had Alaric forgotten who– or what– Damon was, he was also convinced he was still married to Isobel and that his wife was still alive. The woman Damon had turned into a vampire, the woman who had betrayed Alaric by letting him believe she was dead when she had decided that life with him... wasn't enough. The woman who was the reason he and Alaric had met in the first place. The woman whose memory always caused Alaric to go silent for a moment, and then act like he didn't care anymore.

Which was a lie, something Damon could always see through without difficulty, at least when it came to Ric. When Isobel had died, her compulsion on Alaric had lifted– and his heart was no longer free of her. Her death had put a dent into their relationship and it had taken them– both of them– a long time to get over it. Feelings that had been erased from Alaric's memories had suddenly resurfaced, causing him to question everything that had been between them.

And now, thanks to whatever was going on with Alaric's head, she was back, standing between them. Driving them apart, and screwing with Alaric once again.

But Damon would be damned if he allowed her to do that.

"What?"

Damon started at the cautious question and looked up, right into Alaric's eyes. Alaric had been watching him, no doubt picking up on his sudden change of mood, and he was eying him suspiciously now. "What is it? You look like there's something you should be telling me..."

It was uncanny how well Alaric could read him, even when he had no idea who he was. Something that had always been shocking to Damon, and he'd never gotten completely used to. Damon shifted uneasily.

"There is something about Isobel–"

He didn't get any further. He must have shifted, must have moved the wrong way– the next thing he knew was sharp stab of agony in his side and he doubled over, his breath catching in his throat. The world disappeared suddenly behind a veil of black dots and blood-red flashes, stealing his vision completely. He was starting to fall– and he couldn't stop it, there was nothing to hold on to, everything around him got lost in a wave of searing pain that took his breath away. Dimly, he could hear Alaric shouting in the background, felt himself being turned onto his back and he tried to hold on, to stay awake and not give in– but it was too much, it hurt too fucking much–

And then he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks a lot to **pleasebekidding** for the beta, and, also, for the lovely reviews, they keep me writing! :)

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><p>"There is something about Isobel—"<p>

He—the stranger—never got any further.

Alaric reeled back when the man who called himself a friend suddenly curled in on himself and started convulsing, whole body shaking uncontrollably, hoarse sounds of pain filling the empty room as he twisted to the side and crumbled onto the mattress.

"What the—hey!" Alaric reached out, placing his hand on one shaking shoulder, trying to roll the man onto his back. "Hey, buddy, come on, calm down—"

The skin beneath his hand was burning _hot_ with fever and at the same time almost white, so pale it looked translucent, he could see the veins beneath stand out in stark contrast. It looked as if he was barely breathing, a thin wheeze of air getting past his lips with every inhale. He didn't resist at all, flopped limply onto his back, the head rolling to the side. Alaric placed his fingers on the man's wrist, feeling for a pulse, eyes widening when he found it thready and weak and way too fast.

He was going into shock.

"Fuck—hey, come on, don't do this…" Alaric found himself pleading with the unconscious man as he tried to hold him down, then let him go abruptly when he remembered that you weren't supposed to restrict a person's movement during a seizure. He moved slightly on the narrow mattress to make more room and scanned the place, looking for something he could use as a blanket.

There was nothing, the whole… _cell_ was empty besides the mattress they were resting on and some old rags next to it. He shuddered when he remembered that this was no police station and all that talk about having been kidnapped—

Alaric swallowed hard, looking at the room again, then down at the unconscious man in front of him. 'A friend', he'd said—and Alaric wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that in this fucking nightmare there was at least one person on his side, one person who had his back—but he didn't remember a thing, not the face, not the stunning blue eyes that should have been next to impossible to forget, not the intense glare—nothing. That man was a complete stranger to him, and yet Alaric found himself desperate to believe him, needed him to make sense of what was happening to him—to them.

But his friend couldn't talk, was barely breathing by now, curled around the wound in his side so tight it was a struggle to get him to lay properly on his back. He was stronger than he looked and Alaric reckoned it was the pain giving him a boost of extra strength, still keeping him tense and twisted, even in unconsciousness. Also, Alaric himself was feeling extremely dizzy and weak, which made this even more of a struggle until, suddenly and with no warning, the body beneath him went completely limp and collapsed onto the mattress. In a panic, Alaric reached for the man's throat to feel for a pulse and didn't dare breathe until he felt a weak flutter against his fingers.

"Oh my god, don't do this, please, don't die," he whispered frantically, willing the pulse to become stronger.

Alaric had never seen anyone die before, had never seen anyone hurt before. Had no idea what to do now. All his scrambled brain came up with was keeping someone as warm as possible when they went into shock, but there was nothing there to use. And keeping him warm sounded wrong when the person in question was burning up with a fever higher than anything Alaric had ever felt.

"Please don't die," he repeated uselessly, squeezing the shoulder closest to him. There was no reaction, not a flicker of awareness in the slack features. Alaric felt himself starting to panic and he took a deep breath to try and keep at least some sort of control. His searching gaze wandered across the twisted form next to him—

And he froze.

It was the first time Alaric had seen the wound—and he wished he hadn't. He had never seen anything like this before. The man's whole side was bright red, flesh torn and ragged, like some—_thing_ had bitten into his side, tearing chunks of flesh out. From where Alaric was sitting he could see the pale white of bone next to two deep holes. Some dark fluid was oozing out of the deepest tears, pooling on the mattress in a stain that was growing bigger and bigger, as if it had a life of its own.

And then there was the smell. He hadn't noticed it before, too caught up in his own limited version of reality, but it _stank_, the man's side reeked of death and decay, the foul smell of rotting flesh and the sickly sweet smell of a vicious infection taking Alaric's breath away. He felt bile rush up his throat and he started gagging, leaning to the side, away from the sight and the smell in a feeble attempt to keep his already queasy stomach under control.

He didn't make it, his head swimming so badly with the stench and the dizziness that he couldn't hold back. Alaric started to retch, bringing up a surprisingly small amount of half-digested something which he spat on the floor, then leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a second. He felt a little better, a little clearer in his head. He took one of the rags next to the mattress to cover the mess with, then started to get to his feet, determined to get to the door to get some help. If they really had been kidnapped, their captors should make sure they survived long enough to be of use, they should be interested in keeping them alive. His head didn't approve of all the movement and started to pound in protest, but Alaric ignored it as best as he could, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the wall as he more stumbled than walked toward the door.

There was a small opening in the door and Alaric leaned heavily against the wood as he looked out.

"Hello?" It came out a faint croak and he cleared his throat, calling out again. "Hello? We need help in here, my friend is hurt—he's bleeding—Hello? Is there anyone out there?" Alaric narrowed his eyes, trying to see something behind the small bars. There was no movement outside, no sound… and still…

The hair at the back of his neck bristled and he shuddered, there was something out there, he could feel it. Alaric cleared his throat again, raising his voice, not liking how it came out all weak and trembling. "I—we need help, he's bleeding pretty badly, we need something to clean the wound…"

There was movement outside, cutting off his words as he strained to get a better look, to see more—

And then Alaric came face to face with a monster.

There was a face, inches from his own, so close he could smell its breath. The dark eyes were surrounded by black veins that were pulsing as if they had a life of their own, the eyes were bloodshot, gleaming dangerously as they reflected the light from their cell, but worst of all was the mouth: It was twisted into a snarl, bearing pointed teeth, white, sharp _fangs_ that stood out sharply against the pale lips—and then the monster growled at him, a low, vicious sound that left no doubt the monster meant business. To underline this obvious threat, the monster rattled the fucking door in its hinges and Alaric yelped in shock and jumped back, eyes fixed on the grotesque face.

"Holy fuck," Alaric gasped, stumbling away from the door when the monster growled again, raising his hands in supplication. "'s okay," he mumbled dazedly, "just—just stay where you are…"

Man and monster stared at each other for a long time, neither of them moving. Alaric couldn't have moved a muscle if his life had depended on it, too shocked by what he was seeing, too overwhelmed by what his eyes were telling him.

A loud shout finally broke the spell. It came from outside, from behind the monster, and it sounded like an order, though he couldn't make out any words. The—whatever it was fixed him with a long glare, then disappeared from the door, leaving Alaric to stare at it for a long time. By now, he was almost convinced that his concussed head had been playing a trick on him. This couldn't be real, that— _thing_ couldn't be real, he was imagining it. He didn't know much about concussions, had no idea if hallucinations were a part of them, but he figured they were, since no other explanation made any sense. He—it couldn't be real—but if it was? What the hell was it? What did it want with him—with them? Were they being kept as food? Was this some monster kidnapping humans to snack on while they were planning to take over the world like in the movies? Alaric fought to keep down the rising panic. This wasn't real, the head injury was worse than he had thought, he was in some hospital, high on painkillers that were making him see things. He was hallucinating, that was the only explanation—

Alaric felt himself starting to shake from pure adrenaline and shock and slowly, very slowly, walked his way back to the mattress, using the wall for support because he didn't trust his legs anymore. He didn't know what to do. There was a guy who claimed to know him bleeding out in a cell that was being guarded by imaginary creatures and he had to find a way to help him or risk losing the only source of answers he had so far. At the same time, he didn't know what was real and what wasn't and maybe even the injured man had been a hallucination, wasn't really there—

Alaric looked at the mattress, half expecting to find that the still body had disappeared, but the pale man was still there, lying on his side, his eyes closed. He was breathing shallowly and seemed to be even paler than before, if that was possible. Alaric's gaze was immediately drawn to the dark stain of blood that was soaking his shirt and growing wider by the second and decided that this was real, that he wasn't alone in this, if only because that idea would keep him grounded for a few more precious minutes before he finally lost it.

Alaric slowly sank down onto the mattress and sat down close to the man, so close he could lean against a twitching leg, could put a hand on his trembling shoulder and offer some sort of comfort. And ground himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, running a hand through his sticky hair as he tried to figure out what to do now. He soon realized there was nothing he could do, he had no materials to dress the wound with, there was no water to wash it out with and he didn't know enough about first aid to patch up a wound as serious as this. Not to mention that he had literally nothing on his hands to patch it up with. He couldn't get help because of a fanged monster at the door that was all set on eating him as soon as he ever approached it again, and all that lead to one conclusion:

He was fucked.

Alaric took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, then opened his eyes again, scanning the room. Again. His gaze soon fell on the pale face and he concentrated on the unfamiliar features, tried to get his brain to remember him, tried to force himself to come up with some memories that had to be there. But his aching head was working against him, the man remained a complete stranger, he couldn't remember ever having him seen before. Maybe he'd met him the night they were captured? Maybe even before that? He didn't know, couldn't make sense of the situation and the meager information he had. The man had mentioned his wife—and Alaric's stomach clenched when Isobel's worried face appeared before his mind's eye. He had no idea how long he had been gone, but she must be going crazy with worry. They might have had some difficulties in the past months, but he wasn't the kind of guy who wouldn't call his wife to let her know he was going to be late for the evening. Depending on how long he had been missing, she must have called the police by now, maybe they were already out looking for him—them…

Suddenly the stranger let out a hoarse moan, pulling Alaric out of his thoughts. The man started to groan, his body shaking with the pain as his limbs moved restlessly, hands twitching against Alaric's leg. He reached out and placed a hand on one burning shoulder, squeezing slightly to let him know he was there.

"Hey," he soothed softly, helplessly, "you're going to be okay…" He didn't know what else to say, it was a lie, and he knew it. With no way of getting him any help, he was going to sit next to him, feeling useless—_being_ useless while the man was dying… and taking all the answers with him.

The man rolled his head away from him and a shudder went through his rigid body, causing him to ground out a hoarse moan that almost sounded like actual words. Alaric squeezed his shoulder again, was about to say something just as useless and meaningless, when the pale face turned back to him—

And Alaric froze for the third time that night.

There were black rings around the man's eyes, dark veins pulsing under the white skin. His eyes were bloodshot and large in the feverish face and they had a wild look in them. When their eyes met, there was nothing human in them, all Alaric could read in them was something—alien, something dangerous…

Something lethal.

And he was so fast… Before Alaric could do anything, the stranger moved, his pale lips twisted into a murderous snarl and he threw himself at Alaric, crashing him backwards against the wall behind him. His head cracking against the unyielding stone, Alaric immediately felt his fragile hold on reality break, felt his head starting to spin, felt the darkness of the room invade his senses. He was dimly aware of raising his own shaking hands to try and push the man off him, but then he started to drift—

The last thing he saw before oblivion took him away to a better place were sharp, white fangs going for his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

For** ghost4** and **pleasebekidding**.

Thanks A LOT to **ellensmithee** for the beta.

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><p>Awareness returned slowly, bit by bit. He felt like crap, everything hurt, even breathing hurt, seemed too much an effort. His eyes were glued shut and he had no real desire to open them.<p>

But he felt warm. Relaxed.

Safe. In a way he hadn't felt for some time now. A frown crept onto his brow. He didn't want to move just now, but he had to at least open his eyes to find out what had happened. There was the memory of pain; he remembered, quite clearly, _vividly_, how his body had been wracked with tremors, white, hot agony shooting through him, mostly through his side—stealing his vision, making him gag with the severity of it—there was none of that now, just a dull ache, an uncomfortable, deep throbbing he could feel all the way down to his toes.

And there was a sound, nearby, a soft rustling, like movement. Someone was there, close to him. Moving.

Getting _closer_.

"I know you're awake."

He tensed in alarm, he knew that voice, but his mind didn't play along, it was too sluggish to put a name to the voice right now. It was an unpleasant sensation, one he wasn't used to. He felt a low groan left his mouth, surprised at how weak it sounded. He forced his eyes open—only to squeeze them shut again as soon as too bright light made them water instantly.

"You look like crap."

It was a female voice, the same voice, a little closer, still familiar. Still without a face. He opened his eyes again, willed them to stay open and blinked against the light.

Slowly, the room came into focus. He was in his room at the boarding house, in his bed. It was day, light streaming through the windows with no regards to his aching head. The smell of blood—his blood—was heavy on the air, mixed with the sweet smell of something rotten, something sick. There was a figure standing next to him, looking down at him. Blond hair, worried eyes paired with an almost-grin. Holding out a blood-bag to him.

Caroline.

He groaned, took the blood-bag with a hand that was too shaky for his liking, sinking his fangs into one corner. Microwave-warm blood rushed down his throat, instantly reviving his tired senses, clearing his dizzy head. It was the vampire-equivalent of plastic food, but, right now, all he cared about was getting enough of it down as fast as possible to satisfy his hunger.

Caroline was watching him closely, a worried frown betraying the half-smile she tried to keep on her lips.

"How are you feeling?"

Sick was how he was feeling, tired, weak—_irritable_—to put a few names to it.

"How did I get here?" he asked instead. He knew he shouldn't be here, knew he had been somewhere else, some place cold and dark and uncomfortable. Dangerous.

And he also hadn't been alone.

He sat up, looked around, let his eyes settle on Caroline's tense face. "Where's Ric?"

Caroline grimaced slightly, teeth worrying at her lower lip. "What do you remember?"

It were her eyes that made him tense, caused his shoulders to stiffen, his body to sit up all the way. She had a serious look in them, something he didn't associate with her usual behavior at all. "Where is he?"

It was clear she didn't want to tell him something, something bad, something that had to do with Alaric... He wracked his brain, trying to remember, trying to force his mind to replay what had happened... but he couldn't, there was nothing there, the last thing he remembered was starting to talk about Isobel—and then nothing.

Caroline's voice cut through his muddled thoughts.

"He's fine, now, he's healing—But... Damon, when we got there, you were..." Caroline broke off, took a deep breath, looked him square in the eyes. "You were feeding on him—_draining _him, he was barely alive when we found you. He didn't have his—the ring was gone…"

She kept talking, but he was no longer listening. Shit. This was bad, he couldn't have had—Ric had to be okay—

"Where is he?" he asked, mind racing, panic starting to close off his air. Air he didn't even need.

"He's in Stefan's room... he's sleeping. Damon, he's _fine_," Caroline said, voice rising slightly when he pulled the covers aside to get off the bed. "The wound on his head is healed and... he's a little bloody, but he's fine."

It should have calmed him down, should have stopped his heart from beating so painfully inside his chest—but it didn't.

"Did he wake up?"

He felt dizzy once he got to his feet, had to close his eyes for a moment when his vision started graying out at the edges. But he forced it down, put it away, stayed on his feet and took a deep breath before he opened his eyes again.

Caroline was watching him, had taken a step away, knew him too well to get closer. She shook her head. "No."

Walking in a straight line—and keeping his balance—was harder than he remembered, but he made it to the door of his room without swaying or running into furniture, too aware of the attentive eyes following him. The door to Stefan's room was slightly ajar and as soon as he got close enough to touch the doorknob, his dulled senses picked up a familiar heartbeat, the deep breathing that told him Alaric was fast asleep. Stefan's room was just as bright as his own and for the first time in five years he didn't stop at the threshold, didn't flinch back from the memories of what had happened here, too focused on the still figure beneath the covers.

Alaric looked fine, most of him was hidden beneath the covers, his face relaxed, head turned to the side. He was snoring softly, the way he always did when he was bone-tired and dead to the world, the sound so familiar and soothing Damon instantly calmed down a little. There was dried blood and dirt in Alaric's hair, but his face had been cleaned. He didn't look like he had just been drained of his blood—

Relief washed over Damon, threatening to drop him to his knees. He walked over to the bed and sat down on it, resisting the urge to pull the covers off and join Alaric in sleep, seek the warmth of his skin, the familiar throb of Alaric's pulse beneath his fingers…

"Mikael wants to know what happened."

Caroline was standing in the open door, watching him silently. For a moment there was no sound but Alaric's soft breathing and, very distantly, someone moving in the lower part of the house.

Damon shook his head. "Fuck Mikael," he hissed, feeling so tired all of a sudden. "Not now. Tell him to go fuck his hybrids, Caroline, I don't care, not today."

"Damon—"

His head snapped up and he glared at her, eyes narrowing. "Not _now_."

Caroline stayed silent, didn't move, didn't leave. Expecting him to talk, explain himself. So she could go, tell her master, report to him how Damon wasn't doing what he was told. Again. Damon knew she didn't have a choice, he knew she was compelled to keep an eye on them—on _him _and his loyalties and he should watch what he was saying around her. But with Alaric getting hurt and almost killed because the Original thought he had the situation under control—which he obviously had not—it was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut.

Impossible, rather.

"I'm done with Mikael," he said, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded. "The peace agreement doesn't work. The packs don't keep their word, I'm not allowed to fight back—fuck that. If Mikael has a problem with that? Fuck _him_, I don't care, I'm out."

"What about him?"

Caroline was studying Alaric as if she could find out which side he was on just by watching him sleep.

_He has no idea what's happening_—it was at the tip of his tongue—but he bit it back, didn't say it, couldn't bring himself to admit there was something wrong with him.

"We'll see when he wakes up."

That was all he was going to say about it, he'd made his point, probably signed his own death warrant, but he didn't care. One week of worrying about how to get Alaric away from the hybrids, of waiting for either of them to get killed—it was enough. Mikael could kiss his ass, he didn't care.

Caroline was watching him, arms crossed in front of his chest. She looked like she was going to say something, and he cut her off, not in the mood for another pro-Mikael lecture, he'd heard enough of them the last years.

"How did you find us?"

Caroline opened her mouth to say something—closed it, and was silent for a moment.

"Bonnie…" She trailed off, took a deep breath. "She was working day and night, she said she knew you weren't dead, that you were just out of reach—that she could sense you and you had to be close… We knew Alaric couldn't be dead because the protection on the house was still up and we figured they'd probably kill him first because he's just human and everything…"

Damon tensed, shifted on the bed—and frowned when he realized he'd rested his hand protectively on Alaric's hip without noticing it. Even through the covers he could feel the familiar warmth tingle across his skin and he found himself relax at the sensation.

"Last night she suddenly found you—she could see where you were for half an hour or something, and you were gone again, but we knew where to look then."

"I suppose I have your furry friend to thank for this?" Damon gestured at his healing wound and Caroline glared.

"Yes, _Tyler _helped." Her face turned serious, sad. "We had to sedate him, Klaus has been calling him through the bond again…"

Damon winced. It was never pretty when the siring bond Tyler still had to Klaus snapped to life. It didn't matter where Klaus was, which part of the world he was haunting, his call would reach Tyler and the other hybrids who had been close to him, driving them mad when they couldn't follow their masters' commands. They usually had to put Tyler under for four or five days in a row, as Klaus would keep up this magical torture until he lost interest.

"You should talk to Mikael."

"Caroline—"

Caroline held up a hand. "No, I mean it… If they attacked you for no reason—he _has_to know, maybe he can do something—"

Damon shook his head. "Don't you get it, he won't—he _can't_. I trusted him, I listened to him—and you know what happened. You know what they did to Elena, you saw what happened to Stefan— " He broke off, forced himself to calm down, to fight down the wave of pain and impotent anger even the mention of his brother's name still set off, struggling to keep his voice even. "Whatever he thinks he's doing—it doesn't work. And I'm not playing along anymore."

_I won't risk the last person I still give a fuck about.  
><em>  
>His hand tightened involuntarily on Alaric's hip and he felt Alaric move slightly, take a deep breath and relax again.<p>

It was clear Caroline wanted to protest, that her forced loyalty to Mikael was urging her to say something to defend him—but somehow Caroline pushed it down and turned away from him, slowly walking out of the room. When she reached the door, she stopped shortly, looking back over her shoulder.

"I'm happy we got to you in time."

With that she closed the door behind her, leaving him to silence.

He felt tired, exhausted. The bed was warm, soft. Comfortable. Alaric's sleeping form was inviting, should have been enough to make him feel safe and, finally, at peace.

But it wasn't, all he could think of was how he'd fucked up. How he had almost lost—almost _killed _him. The one person who kept him going, the only one who had kept him sane when the shit had hit the fan.

Alaric had stood by him through what had happened to Stefan, through Elena's disappearance, through every crap life had thrown at them. If it weren't for his scruffy teacher, Damon would have flipped the switch a hundred times already and finally gone berserk. It was Alaric who kept him going, kept him sane when the world around them slowly turned into their worst nightmare. They'd slept together the night Damon signed over the boarding house to Alaric to have at least one safe haven—and they'd stayed together ever since.

Right now, he missed him, missed him so much he could barely breathe, even when Alaric was lying next to him. Damon longed to touch him, to curl up against him and just hold him close, no matter how much Alaric would bitch at that.

He couldn't. Remembered too clearly the blank look Alaric had given him back in the cell, the way he couldn't remember anything about him. Damon wanted so badly for Alaric to open his eyes—and at the same time he dreaded the moment. The week they had been locked away with the constant fear of maybe not living to see the next day had brought him close to his breaking point, tested the limits of his strength until he had though he would break—he had no idea what to do, how to keep it together if he couldn't count on his lover. It wasn't fair, it was selfish—but it was _them_, it was how they worked, how they got by.

Damon ran a hand over his face tiredly and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to summon enough strength to get up, get some chair to sit down on, to watch over him…


End file.
